Eleven
by EquestrianCSI
Summary: The team works a series of cases with an eerie connection. Eventual DL. MacPeyton. Rated M for sensitive subject matter and possible graphic violence. Reader discretion advised.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

The crime scene was in the middle inner city New York, where people who were down and out on their luck pawned anything and everything they could. The area was rife with gang violence, drugs and sex for money, and it was not Danny's favourite part of New York City. Arriving on scene, he saw that Mac and Lindsey, along with Stella and Hakes, were already in front of the hi-rise low rent apartment building. Stepping out of his car, he approached his co-workers.

"This must be the place," he said by way of greeting, reading the black numbers painted on the grimy white door frame.

"Eleven Eleven Eleventh Street. How often does that happen, huh?" He grinned at Lindsey, who returned it with a shy smile before looking up at the building.

Mac raised an eyebrow, a half-grin on his own face.

"You'll never guess what apartment number," he told Danny, and watched the young CSI check through his field kit.

"Don't tell me: Eleven?" he asked, and Mac nodded.  
"Eleven seems to be the number of the day," he said, and Danny shot a disbelieving look his boss's direction.

"You gotta be kidding," he said, and Stella shook her head.

"We're not," she said, and followed Mac into the building.

Eleven steps led to the first row of units, and Danny began to wonder if this were some sort of numerological joke. Behind him, he could hear Lindsey counting the steps under her breath, just as he had.

The door to apartment eleven was standing ajar, and the foursome walked cautiously inside, with Hawkes bringing up the rear. The room was bare, save for a stained, broken overstuffed chair with the stuffing placed in a box beside it. The hardwood floor was dull and stained from years of neglect, and the curtains against the window were tattered and ripped. The temperature in the room was well over h hundred, even with the door standing open.

"Nice place," Stella's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"I think whoever lives here needs to fire their decorator," Danny quipped, as he walked into the hall.

"Body's in the bedroom," Mac said, and Danny turned right, walking through the door and into the small room.

The sight before him was one that he'd seen too often, but one that never ceased to shock him. The room was as stark as the living room, with peeling wallpaper and sagging curtains. A lone twin bed stood against the far wall, and the body of a middle aged woman lay across it, her unseeing eyes staeing at the ceiling. Her chest, covered only by her bra, was soaked with blood, and her once-white bra was stained with rust coloured patches of dried, week-old blood. The smell of decomp was strong, and it assaulted Danny's nostrils with it's sickly sweet, heavy scent.

"Landlord found her when he came by to collect the rent," Mac said, his voice echoing against the bare walls.

"She'd not been seen or heard from for at least a week, maybe ten days."

Danny rubbed his nose with the back of his gloved hand.

"Smells like she's been here at least that long," he said, and Hawkes grimaced.

"Without air conditioning, the putrifaction was accelerated. We'll have a more accurate TOD when we get her back to the lab, he said, and paled as he pointed at the wall.

"Unless that's it," he said, and the three other CSIs turned to look.

Hanging on the wall was a round kitchen clock, the plug dangling down the side, and the hands stopped at exactly 11:00.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Peyton had just finished washing down the body of the woman found in the stifling-hot apartment unit when Mac walked through the door of the autopsy room. Peyton looked up, smiling that secretive, knowing smile they often exchanged when they were at work, and the time for words wasn't right.

"Hi," Mac said, smiling at the dark haired woman with the delightful accent.

"Hello, Mac," she answered, and gestured to the nude body on the steel autopsy table.

"I don't have to look too far to see what the COD was," she said, and Mac frowned, stepping closer.

The body was washed clean of the blood that had covered it's upper torso, the woman's ash-blonde hair wet from the bath. Her eyes, cloudy with death, could've been either blue, or green. Mac couldn't tell. Decomp had done it's work on her face, and the features had begun to melt down into an un-defined blob of tissue, fat and bone. Deep, brutal knife wounds started at just under the angle of the jaw and continued down across the chest, over her left breast and ending below the soft cartilaginous Zyphoid Process. Mac studied the wounds, his mind racing with the brutality of the crime. Peyton cleared her throat.

"Cause of death was exsangunation resulting from transection of the Carrotid Artery. Mac met her eyes and she shook her head.

"Another pierced her heart, but she died within minutes from loss of blood."

Peyton stood close to Mac; so close he could smell the light floaral fragrance of her perfume. Night Blooming Jasmine, or something like that, he thought, as he studied the body closely, trying to keep his mind on work, instead of the coroner beside him.

"How many stab wounds did you count?" he asked, glancing sideways at her as he counted again.

Mac didn't have to be told, but he wanted confirmation. He just couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. It was not just a random number of hits, and Peyton confirmed his thoughts when she answered.

"Eleven," she said, picking up her scalpel.  
Mac watched her make the first incision of the Y cut, but he wasn't seeing the body. Instead, he was seeing a pattern.

A pattern that added up to eleven..


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Danny stood in the restraunt's foyer, waiting for Lindsey to arrive. They'd planned on a nice dinner out to get away from the rash of murders that had been happening the past week. All of them had one signifigant relation: the number eleven. Why, no one could figure it out and everyone was frustrated. Danny noticed that he was starting to avoid anything starting with eleven: lotto tickets, subway platforms, even phone numbers were becoming more and more obvious to him. At first he was worried he was becoming paranoid, but then Stella had pointed out that numbers were on everyone's mind, and he wasn't the only one that had been doing a lot of counting lately.

Spotting Lindsey coming through the restaurant's front door, Danny grinned his boyish grin and waved to get her attention. Lindsey smiled back; her shy, sweet smile that he'd come to like so well.

"Hey," Danny spoke by way of greeting, and Lindsey returned it.

"So, you hungry?" He asked, and she nodded eagerly.

"Starved; I missed lunch working on the Eleven Murders." She said, and Danny winced.

"I was trying to forget about all that," he said, and led her to the table the hostess had lead him to earlier.

After they were seated, and had ordered their first drinks, Lindsey sighed.

"You know, I just don't get this one. It's one of the strangest cases I've worked so far," she said, and Danny raised an eyebrow.

"Stranger than the magician?" He asked, referring to a case they had worked several weeks earlier.

Lindsey shrugged.

"Yes; what's the fixation with the number eleven? I mean, is he associating something bad with that number?" Lindsey mused, and Danny shook his head.

"Dunno," he replied, and watched as she took a sip of the ice water the waiter had set before them.

"But I do know one thing," he answered, and directed a level stare at Lindsey.

"I'd rather talk about anything besides the case. I'm starting to dream of the number eleven, and frankly, it's starting to make me a little superstitious.

Lindsey laughed, and opened the menu.

"Okay, not another word." She perused the menu, and Danny took the opportunity to gaze at her, noticing the way the soft light played up her features.

It was while he was sneaking glances at her that he saw her eyebrows shoot up, and a small smile tease the corneres of her mouth.

"What?" He asked, and Lindsey looked up, her eyes dancing with laughter.

"Well, I think I know what I want," she said, and Danny grinned.

"Oh, yeah?" He asked, and she nodded.

"One problem though," she said and continued,

"What?" He frowned.

"It's too much food for just me, and I'll need someone to share it with," she said and grinned.

"Which one is it?" Danny asked, scanning his own menu.

"Entree eleven..the all you can eat clam bake," she said, and Danny covered his eyes.

"You do that on purpose, Montana?" He asked, and she shook her head.

"Nope," she answered nonchalantly.  
"Just luck of the draw."  
Danny sighed. He was good for seafood, but damnit, why did it have to be number eleven on the menu? Why couldn't it have been something different; something he didn't feel superstitious about?

Say, item thirteen, instead?


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

A new day, a new murder for the New York City crime lab to investigate. Mac Taylor walked into the foyer of the three-story, colonial style home and saw an officer standing next to a chair wherein sat an obviously distraught woman in her mid-forties.

The officer approached Mac, and filled him in:

"The wife found her husband this morning when she came home from the night shift at the hospital. Apprently, someone decided to hang him out in the backyard." He turned to look at the woman, who was staring vacantly at a spot on the coffee table.

"She didn't discover him until she stepped out to see why the dog was barking," he finished, pointing to a small, hairy yorkie sitting in the woman's lap.

Mac nodded, and went over to the woman, squatting down beside her chair.

"Mrs. Phelps," he said gently, watching the woman pet the dog with repetitive, quick flicks of the wrist.

"We need to get some information," Mac continued, and Mrs. Phelps turned to look at him.

"I came home about ten this morning," she said, her voice flat,

"I-I was late because I covered a few hours for my co-worker, you know, and I didn't notice Roger was missing; I thought he'd gone to work." Her eyes began to well up again, and her chin to quiver.

"I always take a walk with Monsieur after I change clothes," she said, adding;

"We take our walk in the garden to see what's blooming, and I wasn't paying attention, I guess. The phone rang just as he ran outside, so I stepped back into answer it, when he started barking."

She looked toward the window, where just a few moments before, Roger Phelps' body had been found hanging from a massive black walnut tree.

"Then," she gulped, her voice breaking.

"I s-s-saw R-r-r-roger..." she couldn't finish, and a wave of emotion over took her, wracking her body with sobs.

Just then, Sheldon Hawkes came up to Mac, and whispered in his ear. Mac signalled to Mrs. Phelps to stay put, and followed the examiner out the door.

"Looks like our Eleven Killer striks again," Sheldon said, and Mac raised an eyebrow.

"How you figure," he asked, and Sheldon said,

"TOD was roughly twelve hours ago," he said, and Mac looked at his watch.

The hands on his Timex pointed to exactly eleven AM.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Eleven stab wounds on victim one.

Another body found hanging from a tree with eleven turns of the rope on the hangman's noose.

The second body, blugeoned, with eleven bite marks on the neck and torso.

Whoever this elusive Eleven Killer was, he or she was not only brutal, but sadistic, as well.

What the hell was the fascination-or obsession-with the number eleven? It was a question the crime lab had yet to find the answer to.

Danny and Lindsey stood at the microscope, carefully looking at a sample of the rope that suspended Roger Phelps' body from the tree in his backyard.

"You see anything?" Danny asked, peering over Lindsey's shoulder.  
His breath was warm and gentle on the nape of her neck, and Lindsey grinned, enjoying the close proximity they shared with each other.

"Not yet;" she answered, adding,

"Looks like our killer was wearing gloves when he tied the rope." She sighed, stepping away from the microscope and rubbing her eyes.

"Lemme see," Danny said, and peered down the microscope's eye piece.

The strand of twine showed up against the backlight of the microscope, and Danny could see that it was just a basic hemp rope, but there were no epithelial cells to be found anywhere.

"Damn, this guy's good," Danny said, and chuckled.

"Twisted, but good."

Lindsey nodded, and picked up her notes.

"Okay, so far, we've got two male and one female vic, yet they're apparently not related to each other in any way." She looked up at Danny.

"Do you think they knew each other? Maybe through mutual friends or something?" She asked, and Danny shrugged.

"Dunno; but it's worth a look to see if maybe there is a connection somewhere." He glanced over his shoulder.

"Mrs. Phelps is still in the interrogation room. Maybe she'd have something for us to go on."

"What about Jana Stephenson's mother?" She asked, referring to the woman found stabbed in the apartment on Eleventh Street.

"Maybe she'd have some clues."

Danny was quiet as he thought this over.

"Maybe, but Jana Stephenson was a heavy meth user; that could've been a drug-related murder. Roger Phelps and the other guy..what was his name?"

"Quincy Jerrard," Lindsey supplied.

"Yeah, him. They were both white collar business men with high-paying jobs. Why would they know a junkie like Jana Stephenson?" He asked, and Lindsey shook her head.

"You never know," she said, and put the file on the table beside the microscope.

Their musings were cut short upon Stella entering the room.

"Guys, we may have something on the Eleven Killer," she said, her voice holding the barest hint of hopefulness.

Lindsey and Danny turned to her, their faces both hopeful, and somewhat relieved. Maybe they finally had a break in the case.

"Quincy Jerrard and Roger Phelps both worked for Dulaney and Dulaney Law Firm. Let's go talk to their boss. See if maybe he knows anything," She suggested, and Danny nodded.

"Worth a shot." He glanced at Lindsey and grinned.

"There goes our theory that the vics didn't know each other," he said, and they followed Stella out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

The cemetery was empty even though it was early afternoon, and the supervisor for the ground crew was busily preparing for a burial that was to take place in just a few hours. The old tool shed's wooden walls were paper thin, and through a knothole, he could see a man squatting next to a grave-stone just a few feet from the shed. The groundskeeper could hear snatches of converstation that the man seemed to be having with the grave's occupant.

"I told you," the man said, his voice carrying to the shed on the light breeze,

"I told you I'd repay you for all those times you just sat back and watched him hurt me."

The groundskeeper frowned, and moved closer to the knothole in the shed's wall.

"Everyone's going to pay, mommie. Everyone that knew but thought I was lying; everyone that did nothing to help me get away from him." He paused, shaking his head.

The groundskeeper's heart began to race, as he realised the visitor was out of his mind.

"You've paid, but there's more to come, and it's all because of you," the man continued, unaware that he was being quietly watched.

"I hope you've saved some seats in Hell, mommie, because they're filling up fast, and then, you'll really know what Hell is like. You'll pay, mommie. Even dead, you'll pay."

The groundskeeper's heart was beating a double-time beat, and he felt tiny beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. Whoever this guy was, he was obviously unstable, and as far as the groundskeeper could tell, he was dangerous, too.

"Dear Heaven!" he whispered, his words inaudible to the man at the gravesite.

He watched until the visitor left, and then pulled out his cell phone. Calling 911, he related the scene he'd just witnessed. As he did so, he watched the man walk to a blue Chevy Cobalt, get in, and drive away. Although he didn't see the license plate, there was a massive dent on the rear driver's side door, and he told the operator this, as well. Instructed to stay where he was, the groundskeeper hung up the phone, and checked the door to the shed. It locked from the inside, and although he'd always wondered why, now he twisted the small knob, locking himself in and the insane man out. Sagging against the door, he waited for the police's arrival.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Danny stood staring at the pink granite tombstone in the small cemetery. The warm spring wind ruffled his hair, and the pungent smell of hotdogs from the street vendor a few blocks away carried on the breeze and caused his stomach to rumble. Danny had skipped lunch, working hard on the Eleven Killer case, and now he wished he hadn't. But there were other things to attend to now.

"This is starting to get weird Mac," he said to his supervisor beside him.

"I'm starting to think you're right." Mac said as he stared at the numbers on the headstone.

"Macy Derringer; born November 11 1950 and died," he looked at Danny, who finished Mac's sentence.

"November 11, 2006." He turned to look over his shoulder as a sudden chill passed through his body.

Danny hadn't ever been truly superstitious until this case. Every number connected with it seemed to end in eleven, contain eleven, or the number one. Someone had a morbid fascination with eleven, and the team was beginning to wonder what the hell was going on.

"At least we've got a name to go on now," Said Lindsey, who'd walked up behind the two men.

Her sudden words caused both of them to jump, and then look at her sheepishly. Danny cleared his throat.

"Hey, Montaba," he said sheepishly, hoping she hadn't noticed him startle, but her grin told him she had.

"I want you to cross-reference Macy Derringer's name with everything," Mac told her.

"Obits, death certificates, birth certificates, AFIS, CODIS, everything. We've got to figure out who the visitor this morning was," he said.  
"From the caretaker's discription, sounds like her son," Lindsey said, and Mac nodded.  
"Yes, but what's his name; where does he live? We've got to find out." He said, and Danny looked from Lindsey to Mac.

"This is going to be like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack," he said, and Mac nodded.  
"I want no stone left unturned. Apparently, this guy's got a vendetta against anyone who's connected with him, whether it's his parents, their friends, or even acquantences from his past. Someone has to know who this joker is. There's gotta be someone who can tell us something." He looked at the tombstone at his feet.

"His mother seems to be the catalyst for this obsession," he finished, and studied the birth and death dates on the stone.

"Start with November 11, and see if there's any matches to that date. Maybe some type of lead somewhere. Even if it's a small one."  
Danny nodded, and stood for another moment, until Mac scowled at him.

"Waiting for an engraved invitation, Messer?" He asked, and Danny shook his head.

"No, sir," he answered, and turned to go.

"Lindsey, go with him. I want you two to work together, and see what you can come up with." At their affirmative nods, Mac walked back to where the caretaker was waiting by the toolshed.

"I'll see if our witness can give a better description of the car," he said over his shoulder.

Lindsey and Danny watched their boss walk away.

"Let's get going," Danny said, and he and Lindsey walked toward their cars.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Two days had passed since the team had been called to the cemetery. Two days without any sign of the Eleven Killer. Yet, none of the CSI's had even begun to think they could breathe easy. And, they were right. Now, Mac, Stella, Danny and Hawkes stood in the foyer of the Grand Masonic Lodge, looking at the latest victim of the Eleven Killer.

"COD is strangulation" Hawkes said from his squatting position next to the body.

A blue cord was wrapped tightly around the neck of the victim; so tightly, the velvet material had actually cut into the flesh.

Mac turned to the Eric Walden, the Senior Grand Warden, standing a beside him.

"Did you hear anything; see anyone here that didn't belong?" He asked, and the Walden shook his head.

"John usually is the first one here most days," he said, "he opens up the lodge, takes care of any business waiting before I get here." He explained, and Mac nodded.

"When was the last time you saw him?" Stella asked, and the Walden sighed.  
"Yesterday, about noon. He went home early because his wife was going into labour. He wasn't supposed to be here this morning; I gave him the day off, but apparently, it was a false alarm. John was a very dedicated Mason," he said, and sighed again.  
"He's going to be sorely missed."

Mac looked at Hawkes, who was busy collecting samples from the body lying on the foyer's tiled floor.

"I might have a hair sample," he said, his tone hopeful. "Maybe our killer finally left us some DNA."  
"We'll need a list of members," Mac said, turning to Walden.  
"Sure thing," he answered, and disappeared into his office.

"What are you thinking Mac?" Danny asked, and Mac was silent a moment before responding.

"The number eleven is signifigant in Free Masonry," he explained.

"Thirty-three is the highest obtainable degree in Free Masonry. Thirty-three is divisible by eleven Looks like our killer is getting creative," he finished, and gestured to the blue cord around the victim's neck.

"The colour blue is a symbol of truth, secrecy, sincerity and fidelity. Maybe we're being told to find the truth behind the secrets," He guessed, shrugging his shoulders.

That even sounded lame to Mac, but right now, they were all grasping at straws.

"There has to be a connection somewhere between Macy Derringer's son, and the Masons. All of the victims appear to have known each other in some way. If there's a member named Derringer on the list, then we need to go talk to him." He said, just as the Walden returned from the office, carrying a thick binder.

"You should go talk to Will Derringer," he said, having overheard the conversation.

Stella stepped forward, taking the binder.

"Do you know where Mr. Derringer lives?" She asked, and the Walden indicated the book.

"It's all there. Names, addresses, phone numbers of all our members." He looked to Mac with an emploring gaze.

"Please find who's doing this. We don't want anything else happening to anyone. Whether they're Masons or not. This is affecting everyone, and the killer needs to be stopped."  
Mac nodded curtly.

"I couldn't have said it better myself." He replied grimly.

Suddenly, a thought struck him.

"Do you happen to have membership records dating from 1950 to the present?" He asked, and Walden nodded.

"It'll take a little while to get them together, but I can get you copies," He said, and took the business card Mac held out to him.

"Let me know as soon as you get those ready. I want to know as much as I can about this connection," he instructed, and Walden slipped the card into his pocket.  
"That makes two of us," he said. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Dulaney and Dulaney Law Firm was just around the corner from the Grand Masonic Lodge, Mac and Stella walked through the double doors and into an open-air design lobby. The floor to ceiling windows let in the bright sun and a water fountain splashed merrily in the center of the atrium.

A large reception desk lined one wall, and a tall blonde woman sat behind it, briskly entering information into the computer in front of her. She didn't seem to notice Mac and Stella standing at the desk until Stella cleared her throat. At the sound, the receptionist looked up. Her expression was both startled and annoyed, and she raised an elegant eyebrow.

"May I help you?" She asked, her tone remote and slightly nasally.

"NYPD," Mac said, showing his badge.  
"We need to talk to Mr. Dulaney." The receptionist scoffed.

"Do you have an appointment?" She asked, and Stella shook her head.  
"No, but the badges should be enough," she replied.

She hated to hide behind her badge like that; she wasn't a cop that thought she should get special privilege because of her occupation, but there were times when it really helped out. This was one of them.

"What's this in reference to?" The receptionist asked, glaring at Stella coldly.

"That's between us and Dulaney," Mac said, just as a man appeared from one of the offices to the left of the reception desk.

Slender and tall, Mark Dulaney looked like he belonged in the pages of GQ, rather than an office in downtown Manhattan.

"Cheri, place a call to Quincy; if he doesn't check in soon, he's going to be out of a job." He looked up, noticing Mac and Stella for the first time.

"May I help you?" Mark asked, puzzled.

"Are you looking for Quincy Jerrard?" Stella asked, and Mark nodded, surprised.

"Yes, do you know him?" He asked and Mac sighed.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to hire someone to take his place, Mr. Dulaney, because Jerrard is dead."

Cheri's hand flew to her mouth, and the colour drained from Dulaney's face.

"How? What? What do you mean, dead?" Dulaney stammered, and Mac nodded toward the office Dulaney had just emerged from.

"Let's go talk in your office," he said, and the Dulaney nodded, leading the way.

Cheri watched them go, tears streaming down her face. Stella noticed, and hung back.

"You okay?" she asked the young receptionist, and Cheri shook her head.

"Quincy and I, we were, uh..." she hesitated, and then cleared her throat.

"Our relationship was a secret, but we were involved," she said, and Stella cocked her head to one side.

"Then I'm going to need to talk to you too," Stella replied, pulling a chair closer to the reception desk.

"Did Quincy ever mention anyone by the last name of Derringer?" Stella asked, and Cheri shook her head, wiping her nose with a tissue.

"No, no; I don't think so, " She replied, and sniffed loudly.

"How about Roger Phelps? He worked here too; did he ever mention anyone named Derringer?" At the mention of Phelps' name, Cheri broke down again.

"We've lost two employees in the last week. How could this be happening?" She wailed, and Stella took a deep breath.

"Look, do you remember either of them ever mentioning the name Derringer?" She asked, and Cheri thought a moment.

"Well, let's see. I believe Roger's sister was named Mary, or Marcy.." she frowned, and Stella prompted,

"Macy?" At the name, Cheri nodded vigorously.

"Macy Derringer, yes. That was it!" she exclaimed, and Stella quickly scribbled the information in her notebook.

"She died a few years ago though," Cheri said, and Stella nodded.

"Yes, that's right. Now, do you know if Quincy knew Macy?" she asked, and Cheri shrugged.

"Well, Quincy and Roger were best friends all their lives; so, I would say that yes, they all knew each other, but Quincy never mentioned Macy. It never came up."

Stella wrote this down.

"Okay, how about Jana Stephenson? Do you recognise that name?" She asked, and Cheri nodded.  
"No, that's not familiar at all." Cheri said, and sighed.

Stella snapped her notebook shut and made to rise.

"If you think of anything else," she said, pulling a business card from her pocket and handing it to Cheri,

"Would you call me ASAP?" she asked, and Cheri nodded.

"Sure," she said, and wiped her nose again.

"I've got coffee brewing; fresh pot. Would you and your friend like some?" She offered, and Stella smiled.

"Sure thing," she said.

As she watched Cheri pour the steaming beverage, Stella felt a tiny ray of hope that maybe they were getting closer to the Eleven Killer..one person at a time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Danny and Lindsey pulled up in front of a modest brown-stone house in Greenwich Village. Wedged between a red-brick highrise and a small church, the house was almost obscured from veiw by a large oak tree in front.

"4644 Avenue C," Danny said, looking at the house from the window of his car.

"No cars in front," Lindsey said,

"Do you think anyone's at home?" She asked and Danny opened his door.

"We'll know in a minute," He replied, and they walked together up the sidewalk to the house.

A smallish woman of about 40 answered their knock. Her beetle-black eyes peered out at them from beneath a mop of dirty brown hair.

"Yes," she asked, "what you want?" She asked, her eyes darting from Danny to Lindsey.

Exchanging glances, they produced their badges.

"NYPD," Danny informed her,

"We're looking for a Will Derringer. You know him?" He asked, and the woman shook her head.

"He ain't here. He don't have no reason to be talking to youse," she said defiantly, and Lindsey frowned.

"He's not in trouble, we just want to-" She was interrupeted by a man's voice coming from the rear of the house behind the unkempt woman.

"It's okay, Juliana," a man said, appearing in the doorway as Juliana stepped aside.

Holding out his hand, the man apologised:

"Forgive my sister-in-law," He said,

"She's just a bit protective of me," He laughed and introduced himself as he shook Lindsey's hand.

"Will Derringer; what can I do for you?" He asked, and Danny indicated the sidewalk.

"Would you mind stepping out for a moment? We need to ask you a few questions," he said, and Will frowned.

"Sure," he said, and turned to Juliana.

"Would you make sure I turned off the water in the back yard?" He asked, effectively ensuring a private conversation between the officers and himself.

Juliana shot a hunted look at Danny and Lindsey before taking her leave.

"Will, you're a member of the Masons, correct?" Asked Danny, and Will nodded.

"Yes, but I've not attended a meeting in quite a long time I'm afraid." He said, and Lindsey spoke up.

"Did you know John Atchinson?" She asked, and Derringer nodded.

"Yes, I did. Why do you ask?" He crossed his arms; not in defense, but in a casual way.

"You know he was murdered this morning?" Danny asked, and Derringer nodded.

"Yes, Eric Walden let me know just a few minutes ago. What's that got to do with me?" He asked curiously, and Danny sighed.

"Do you know a Macy Derringer," he asked, and Will stiffened.

"I think we're done here," he said, and before either Lindsey or Danny could react, Will Derringer stormed back into the house and slammed the door behind him.

Danny looked at Lindsey, who was staring agape at the house.

"Should we take that as a yes?" He quipped, and placed his hands on his hips.

He pretended not to notice Juliana watching them from the back of the house as she turned off the garden hose. Someone here was hiding something; he was sure of it. But, he wanted to get in touch with Mac before he did anything else.

"Let's go get something to eat, Montana," He suggested,

"I've got a feeling this is going to be a long day."


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."

The words were whispered, and Monsignor Jankowski had to lean closely against the wall of the confessional to hear what the man next to him was saying.

"What is this sin you've commmitted, my son?" Jankowski asked, and was prepared for a confession of adultery or lust.

But what he heard chilled his blood, and caused his breath to hang in his throat.

"I've hurt so many people, Father." The voice on the other side of the wall explained,

"I've committed sins that violate God's holy word. I've got blood on my hands, Father. I can't wash it off."

Monsignor Jankowski swallowed, and rubbed his forehead with his index finger. Surely, the man wasn't serious. He hoped it was all figurative speech, but something in the man's voice told him it wasn't.

"God will forgive you, my son." Jankowski said, making the sign of the cross over his chest.

"No, I don't think so." the voice on the other side said, and the Monsignor frowned.

"Why not?" he asked.  
"God forgives those who are truly repentant." The words sounded empty, like something to fill the gaps in the conversation.

"Not this time, Father. Because, I'm not finished." The words were haunting, and Jankowski felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

"Finished with what?" Jankowski asked, pulling his cell phone from the pocket of his robe.

"I want everyone who knew what was happening to me, to pay for their silence. They stood by, and they didn't say a word. They could've helped me and they didn't."

Jankowski was puzzled. The confession sounded like the desperate plea of a boy who'd been so terribly hurt, that he'd never be able to let go of it all without psychiatric help, and Jankowski felt incapable of helping at all.

"How do you want them to pay?" He asked, silently dialing 911 on the phone's keypad.  
He didn't hit the call button, but wanted it ready in case the man in the booth next to him told him something that would require the intervention of the police, or God forbid, the ambulance. At the man's next words, Father Jankowski hit the call button.

"Death, Father. And I know you knew what was happening too, and you did nothing to help. That's not how a man of God should behave, is it?" The words were sinister; devoid of emotion.

"I don't understand," Jankowski said.

The 911 operator came on the line, but Jankowski dind't get a chance to speak. Suddenly, the door to his side of the confessional flew open, and a the Monsignor was yanked from his seat and thrown to the floor. He looked up to see an angry young man standing over him, a .9mm pistol pointing right at his forehead.

"Dear God," Jankowski said.

Those two words were all he had time to utter before the man pulled the trigger, emptying the gun into the Monsignor's chest, reloaded, and shot him twice more.

Behind them, on the alter in the sanctuary, eleven candles burned brightly; silent witness to the murder of yet another victim of the Eleven Killer.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

"I think I've got something," Danny said from his seat in front of the computer in the crime lab.

"I've been looking through birth and death certificates from the last 50 years; I narrowed it down to Derringer and also to Macy Clemmons."

Lindsey frowned, peering over Danny's shoulder at the data on the computer screen.

"Macy Clemmons?" She asked, and Danny glanced at her.

"Yeah, Macy Clemmons-Derringer. Born November 11, 1950." He said, adding;

"The name on the grave at the cemetery."

"Anyway, I cross-referenced all that and look what popped up," He exclaimed, pointing to the screen.

"William Paul Clemmons," Lindsey read and frowned in confusion.

"Where does he fit in?" She asked, and Danny hit the 'back' button, taking him to the previously veiwed page.

"Looks like, Macy Derringer had a baby girl out of wedlock. The name of the father is," he squinted to read the smudged writing on the photo-copied birth certificate.

"Greg Stephenson." Danny and Lindsey exchanged glances.

"Our first vic was named Jana Stephenson, she supplied, and Danny nodded.

"Now, lookie here." He tapped out a few commands on the computer.

"Jana Stephenson had a baby boy when she was only 15. And that precious bundle of joy is William Paul Clemmons,"

"And that's not all," Danny said, his voice almost giddy with excitement.

"William Paul Clemmons was born November 11, 1985. On his grandma's birthday," he said, and Lindsey shook her head.

"Wow. Was that planned or what?" She asked, and Danny shrugged.

"Maybe; but if we've got a name, and it ties in with two of the vics, then I say there's a good chance that little Willy here is our Eleven Killer." He looked up at Lindsey and grinned down at him.

"Then maybe we should go check him out," she said, and looked around the lab quickly, making sure no one was in sight.

Quickly, she dropped a kiss on Danny's cheek.

"Good work," she said, and winked.

"After this is over," Danny said, carefully taking her hand,

"I want us to celebrate, okay?" He asked, the thoughts he didn't speak evident in his eyes.

Lindsey blushed, knowing full well how their next date was going to end.

"Then we'd better solve this quick," she said, and left the room.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Mac frowned as he stared at the computer monitor. Danny had shown him his findings on William Paul Derringer, but something was not adding up to Mac.

"William Derringer seemed to get nervous when we asked about his former wife, Macy, who is Jana Stephenson's mother," Danny said, trying to make the muddy waters surrounding the Eleven Killer case clearer for his supervisor.

"There's got to be a reason for him to suddenly clam up like that. A big one. Someone's hiding something and it's getting more and more confusing by the second." Lindsey said, sighing.

Mac studied the computer monitor a moment longer, and Danny could almost see the wheels turning in the other man's head. Mac was smart, there was no doubt about that, and Danny knew that he would eventually come across the missing pieces to this ever-growing puzzle.

"Let's get him in for questioning," Mac finally said, rubbing his forehead.

"Put the heat on him and find out what it is he's not wanting to discuss."

Danny nodded;

"Yes, sir," he said, rising to his feet and pulling his keys out of his pocket.

Just then, Mac's cell phone rang. He answered, and Lindsey saw his expression darken. She motioned for Danny to hold on a moment. They didn't have to wait long. Mac rung off, and flipped his cell phone closed.

"Don't worry about Mr. Derringer right now. There's been another murder."

"Where at?" Danny asked, and Mac raised an eyebrow.

"Apparently, someone heard a confession they shouldn't have," he said, and motioned for the CSI's to follow him out of the lab.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Father Jankowski's body lay naked upon the autopsy table, still wet from Sid giving it a bath. Stella entered the autopsy room, cup of coffee in hand. She walked over to the ME, eyeing the body as she passed the table.

"That's pretty sacreligious," she remarked, and Sid pulled his nifty reading glasses apart as he pulled them from his face.

"It is, isn't it," he answered, and led Stella to the table.

"COD is exactly eleven bullets fired at close range with a semi-automatic handgun," Sid began, counting the wounds on the body.

"Heard he was found with eleven burning candles above him," He said, and Stella nodded.

"You heard right. This guy's a real whacko," she remarked, and Sid beckoned her to follow him to the counter by the sink.

"Here are the father's personal effects, he told her, and held up a ziplock baggie that contained a gold Rolex watch.

"Note the time the watch is stopped on," he said, and Stella glanced at the round face.

"Eleven," she said, pursing her lips.

"Mac said that according to Jankowski's day book, confessional sessions were to start at eleven," she continued,

"So if we can find the person who had the first time slot, then maybe we'll have something." she said hopefully, and Sid shrugged.

"Maybe so," he agreed, and Stella patted his shoulder.

"Thanks for your time, Sid," she told him and he smiled back at the young detective.

"Not a problem, Stella. You just find out who's doing all this."


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Will Derringer was terrified. So much so, that he'd lost control of his bladder, and the front of his slacks were now soaked. The young man in front of him, crossbow in hand, laughed maniacally.

"What's the matter, Daddy-o?" The man asked,

"Are you scared of me?" he taunted, and Will Derringer swallowed hard.

"Come on, Paul," he said, his voice shaking,

"Put that down and we can talk about this."  
The young man, William Paul Clemmons, laughed again, his eyes glowing with a crazy, evil light.

"It's funny that you of all people want to talk to me now, isn't it?" He asked as he stroked the crossbow lovingly.

"Before, you didn't want me to say anything at all." His voice had dropped to a whisper.

Will Derringer's heart was pounding in his chest, and sweat had beaded up above his upper lip.

"I am sorry, " he said, his eyes pleading with the skinny young man to have mercy.

"Not as sorry as you will be," Paul replied.

"Not as sorry as Uncle Greg will be."

Will Derringer's mouth went dry. His older brother had fathered Paul's mother, Jana, in a brief fling with Derringer's ex wife Macy. He'd not seen or spoken to Greg Stephenson in a long time, nor had he seen Jana in years. Last he knew, she was a meth addict in the inner city, and he wanted nothing to do with her.

He'd never forgiven Macy for falling for Greg's charm, and he'd divorced her soon after he found out she was pregnant. Macy hadn't slept with Will in two years when she got pregnant, and as far as he knew, there'd been only one Immaculate Conception in the history of mankind. He and Greg were nearly twenty two years apart, and Greg had been the better looking of the two. It was Greg that had seduced Macy in the first place, but it was Macy that had never said no to anything. Seducing his wife wasn't the only thing Greg Stephenson did that was immoral, Will knew, but it had been Will that had taken the fatal step that eventually led here. He knew that Paul had tried to tell everyone he thought would listen to him about the abuse, but apparently, his cries had fallen on deaf ears. Will had known better; but he couldn't stand the fact that his eldest brother had fathered a child with Will's wife, and to him, the child provided the perfect outlet for his twisted, immoral and incestous fantasies. Now he was standing here, looking his own son in the face. And his son-the son he'd fathered with Jana Stephenson, the son he'd turned to for sexual favours-was aiming a loaded cross-bow his direction.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

The pager's incessant buzzing on the bedside table finally broke into Mac's dreams, and he rolled over, carefully reaching over Peyton's sleeping form beside him in the bed to pick up the device from the bedside table. It had been a long day the day before, and Peyton was due to go in early in the morning. From the looks of the number on the pager's screen, her morning was about to start two hours early.

"Hey," Mac whispered, kissing the woman's brow tenderly.  
Peyton stirred, sighed and snuggled closer against Mac's chest. Mac grinned. He'd finally found love again, and being with Peyton made his life so much brighter, he couldn't hardly believe it was for real.

"Babe," he whispered against her hair, "you've got a call." Peyton sighed, frowned and opened her eyes.

"Damn," she said, her English accent softened by sleep.

"Who is it?" she asked, sitting up and taking the pager from Mac's hand.

"Hawkes; you better call him and see what's up. Maybe it's nothing." He answered, and Peyton groaned.

Reaching for the telephone, Peyton punched in the phone number to the morgue, watching Mac get out of bed and head for the bathroom for his morning shower. Hawkes answered on the third ring.

"You paged?" Peyton asked by way of greeting.

Mac, standing at the sink, listened to the one-sided conversation as he pulled the medicine cabinet door open.

"When did they bring them in?" Peyton asked, and Mac frowned.

_'Them'? _In his gut, he knew that the Eleven Killer had struck again, and this time, it sounded like more than one body. He heard Peyton hang up the phone, and then the sounds of her bare feet padding across the bedroom toward the bathroom. He turned as she entered.

"What is it?" He asked, and Peyton shook her head, sighing.

"There was a double-murder last night; apparently one of the victims was able to dial emergency before she died." Peyton answered, running a brush through her hair.  
"Hawkes has asked me to come in and help with the autopsies before he leaves for the day. He was up all night conducting the Jankowski autopsy. He sounds so tired." She looked at Mac, her face reflecting her own weariness.

"When is this going to be over, Mac?" She asked, and he silently wrapped his arms around her warm body.

"I know your case load has almost tripled Peyton," he said huskily, kissing the top of her head.

"My team and I are working as hard as we can to find this guy; when we do, maybe we can take a few days off for ourselves."

Peyton smiled, loving Mac for his thoughtfullness. He'd rarely taken a day off in over six years, and she had plans to whisk him off to London for a much-needed vacation. He didn't know this yet, and she couldn't wait to tell him. But she knew the Eleven Killer had to be brought in first. Mac wouldn't take a vacation now, and leave his team to do it alone. She knew how dedicated the man was, and she loved him for it.

"I can't wait to get you completely alone and all to myself," she told him, and raised up on tiptoe, inntending to kiss Mac's cheek.

He turned his head, causing her lips to brush his instead.

"I know, he whispered against her mouth, "and I can't, either.

"You know I love you, don't you?" Peyton asked, and Mac nodded.

"About as much as I love you." He hugged her tightly, wishing neither of them had to work today, but knowing they'd be able to have a quiet evening together later that night.

At least he hoped so.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

The shafts of eleven arrows protruded from each of the bodies on the floor in the kitchen of the small house in Greenwich Village. Will Derringer and Juliana Davis had obviously met their fate in the sight of a crossbow.

"Damn it!" Lindsey cursed, and Danny shot her a look.

"I guess we won't be talking to Mr. Derringer now, will we?" He asked, and Lindsey shook her head, her brown hair brushing her shoulders.

"Nope," she said, studying the crime scene pictures Stella and Flack had taken the evening before.

"I've run William Paul Clemmons' name through AFIS," Danny told her, waiting for the results to come up on the computer.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and can go talk to him," He said, just as the computer indicated a match.

Lindsey looked at the results from over Danny's shoulder.

"Looks like our suspect had his fingerprints taken as part of a child ID program in elementary," Danny said, looking at the picture of a six year old boy on the screen.

"Other than that, nothing. No criminal record or anything to speak of that would let us know he was trouble." Danny frowned, writing down the address beside the boy's picture.

"Maybe we'll get lucky, Montana," he said, and re-read the address.

"It's over on 39th Avenue. There's a chance he still lives there, and I grew up right around the corner." he told her, and Lindsey shrugged.

"Then let's check it out," She said, pulling off her lab coat.

"Not so fast," Peyton said from behind them, and they turned questioning glances to the ME.

"Mac needs you guys to finish processing the evidence from the Derringer-Davis crime scene, if you will. He wants it done by a fresh pair of eyes that haven't been up all night." She smiled at them.

"I'm sure 39th Avenue will still be there in a few hours." With that, she turned and left the room.  
Danny and Lindsey stared after her for a moment, before Danny pulled his keys out of his pocket.

"You heard the lady," he said, and indicated for Lindsey to go out ahead of him.

"Lead the way." He said, and followed her out of the lab.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

The two-bedroom cottage on 39th Ave was a non-descript run down place, years of disrepair making it seem dilapidated beyond it's years. If the peeling white paint were re-done, and the missing pickets in the fence replaced, and the lawn mowed, it would've been a cozy place to live. Instead, it looked unkempt, ragged and unloved. This was the address on William Paul Clemmon's file in AFIS, and this was the address Danny and Lindsey parked in front of early the next morning. Danny peered through the windshield of his car at the house.

"Doens't look like there's anyone home, but that doesn't mean there isn't." He told Lindsey as they stepped out of the car.

Passing through the open front gate, Danny led the way, warning Lindsey to be mindful of the rickety front steps as they made their way to the front door. The porch sagged, its roof in danger of caving in, and Danny glanced warily at the rotted wood beams overhead as he knocked.

"NYPD, we need to talk to you," he said, and waited.

When no answer was forthcoming, he knocked again.  
"NYPD, open up!" he said louder, hoping the sound of his voice wouldn't cause an avalanche of porch timbers to come raining down upon them.

Receiving no answer the second time, Danny reached down and turned the door knob. It opened easily, the door creaking back upon rusty hinges. Danny and Lindsey exchanged glances, Danny's eyes conveying silently warning Lindsey to take care.

The cottage was bigger inside than it appeared from the outside, but the dim, shadowy interior caused the air to press in close around the two cops as they moved inside. Heavy drapes were shut against any sunlight that might try to stream in though the picture window on the right, and furniture stood shabby and silent around them. Old newspapers, take-out containers and clothing littered the wood floor beneath their feet, and the smell of decaying food assailed Lindsey's nostrils, making her gag.

"This is worse than decomp anyday," she murmered, and Danny held up his hand, shushing her.

Lindsey followed close behind him, the oppressive atmosphere of the house causing the hair to stand up on the nape of her neck.

"Something's not right," she whispered, and checked to make sure the safety was set on her weapon.

They crept into the kitchen, a dark, silent cave directly in front of them.

"Anyone home?" Danny called, and waited for a response.

Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, Danny switched it on and shone it into the kitchen. Lindsey gasped as close to two-dozen roaches skittered across the dirty tile floor in every direction. The stove was nearly obscured beneath dirty, smelly pans, and food, grease and dirt was caked on the stove, counters and sink.

"Holy shit," Danny whispered, shaking his head.

"Unbelievable how some people live," he said as they continued through the kitchen and into a bedroom.

The first bedroom was bare, with threadbare, grey carpet that used to be white at one time. The closet door stood open, and several boxes lined the floor along the wall. The next bedroom wasn't bare; in fact, it told everything about the occupant of the cottage.

"Danny, do you see this?" Lindsey asked, her jaw dropped in astonishment.

"I'm seeing it," he said, "and I think we've found our guy."

Save for a mattress on the floor, and a beat up bereau in the corner, the room contained nothing but boxes upon boxes of papers, literature and all sorts of miscellaneous bric-a-brac from the life of an obsessive-compulsive packrat. Lindsey could see what looked like streaks of paint splashed on the wall, and she brought her own flashlight up to see what it was. The marks on the wall weren't paint; but instead streaks of arterial blood spray arcing across the room from one wall to the other, and when Danny pointed his own flashlight to the ceiling, they could see the blood splatter on the ceiling as well.

"Oh my god," Lindsey said,  
"Someone died in this room," Danny muttered,

"And they didn't go quietly. Look." He pointed to the bloody hand prints and streaks on the door frame that indicated whoever it was had desperately tried to get out of the room.

Carefully, Danny nudged the door shut with his toe, revealing yet more blood, as well as fingerprints along the door.  
"This just became a crime scene," Lindsey said, and Danny nodded.

"But who was the victim?" He answered, frowning as he pushed the door open again.

Lindsey gasped, covering her mouth with her hand just as a scream rose in her throat. Danny didn't have time to react, as the person standing in the hall lunged forward, throwing Danny to the floor and grabbing his weapon out of his hand in one swift move. Lindsey raised her own gun, but the surprise attacker already had the upper hand. He kicked the gun out of her hand, across the floor and under the beareau. Slamming the butt of Danny's own gun into the cop's cheek, the man turned to Lindsey, pointing Danny's gun at her. Lindsey had taken out her cell phone to call for backup, but the man raised the gun and pointed it at her chest.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

"I wouldn't do that, my love," he said, his eyes sparkling with insanity, and his lips drawn back over rotted, blackened teeth.

"Unless you want to see your friend die right in front of your eyes." He looked back at Danny, who was moaning, and semi-conscious on the floor.

Lindsey felt torn between trying to get to her partner, and doing what she was told by the insane man before her. He grinned, an emotionless, dead smile that slashed across his face.

"William Paul Clemmons?" She guessed, knowing there was no way this man could be anyone else.

"You want to know who died here?" Paul asked, and looked around the room at the blood spray.

"Do you?" He yelled when Lindsey didn't answer, his voice echoing harshly.

Lindsey nodded, her stomach in knots, and fear wrapping around her larynx, making it hard to breathe.

"Open the closet," Paul instructed, gesturing with Danny's gun.

Numbly, Lindsey moved toward the closet, turning the sticky, blood-stained knob and pulling the door open slowly. Inside, on the floor of the closet, lay the headless body of a man, a machete sticking out of his chest. The man's head was no where to be found.

"Where's his head?" Lindsey asked, her voice remarkably calm despite the situation.

"Lizzy Borden took an axe," Paul began, rising from where he'd been kneeling by Danny's body.

Lindsey watched him approach; he was still reciting the macabre children's rhyme.

"And gave her father 40 whacks.." He cocked his head to one side, staring at Lindsey with an almost whimsical expression.

"Do you know what she did to her mommy?" He asked Lindsey, his voice high and childlike.

Lindsey's mouth was cotton-dry and she opened it to speak, her voice low and unfamiliar to her ears.

"Gave her 41," she said, and Paul began to laugh.

Lindsey knew the poem; she'd learned it as a child herself, but Paul's version was backward, evil.

"41. 41 whacks with an axe. But I did better. You know how I did better?" he asked, his voice a chanting, sing-song falsetto.

"Uncle Greg there wouldn't go away. He wouldn't go away. So, you know what? I gave him," Paul began to laugh, uncontrollably, crazily.

"Little Paul took an axe, and gave Greg 44 whacks, and when he saw what he'd done, he gave stupid uncle Greg 44 more whacks, just to make sure he was good and dead." Paul accented his words, and they echoed through the room:

"_Stupid! Uncle! More! Good! Dead!" _The words were harmless by themselves, but when spoken by a psychopath, they turned evil and insane.

Lindsey was scared; damned scared. She was a cop, but when in fear for their own lives, and the lives of those they loved, well, cops could be scared too.

A movement behind Paul caught Lindsey's attention. Danny was coming to, his eyelids fluttering open and his head rolling from one side to the other. Lindsey knew her best bet was to keep Paul talking; to keep him from noticing the cop's movement, and hopefully, apprehend him before he hurt either one of them again.

"Why did you kill him?" She asked, and Paul shrugged his shoulders.

"He did bad things," He answered, and walked over to the closet, staring down at Greg Stephenson's body.

"What things?" Lindsey asked, and Paul was quiet.

Danny was fully conscious, and Lindsey silently signalled him to be quiet. Although his mind was foggy, Danny realised what Lindsey was doing, and nodded his understanding. Lindsey looked at the base of the beureau, and Danny followed her gaze to see the butt of her gun lying under it. His cheek hurt and he had a major headache, but he nodded, encouraging Lindsey to keep Paul occupied.

Paul didn't seem to be aware of what was going on behind him. His eyes had taken on a haunted, faraway look, and his face had gone blank. He stood, staring down at his uncle's corpse.

"Bad things that I can't talk about or he'll hurt me again," Paul said softly.

"Was he the only one that hurt you, Paul?" Lindsey asked, her voice shaking slightly.

Paul shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes. He started sucking his thumb, shaking his head and humming.

"Paul?" Lindsey whispered, and watched out of the corner of her eye as Danny retrieved her weapon from it's hiding place.

"Sometimes, Uncle Greg and Father would come in here together to spend time with me," Paul continued, his posture almost catatonic.

"I told everyone, but no one believed me; said I was a liar and I'd go to hell," Tears were spilling down his cheeks, falling in dark splotches against his black shirt.

"So I decided everyone else had to go to hell too." He finished, and Lindsey frowned.

"Everyone you told? Is that why you killed Father Jankowski, and Jana Stephenson?" She asked, and Paul nodded.

"And the others." He laughed again, adding,

"You walked right into my trap," he said, and Lindsey frowned.

Danny watched the exchange, everything falling into place suddenly and completely. He knew before Paul voiced it, what was coming next.

"I told the cops too, but they didn't listen. So now, they have to die."  
He turned, raising his weapon at Lindsey.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Looking down the barrel of her own service weapon, Lindsey couldn't help the tiny whimper that escaped her lips. Everything began happening in slow motion as she heard Danny yell her name, and saw Paul swing the gun Danny's direction. Instinctively, Lindsey hit the floor, covering her head as a deafening explosion of gunfire erupted around her. The smell of gunpowder assaulted her nostrils, and she heard a body hit the floor near by. But who's body was it? She hoped to God it was Danny who fired the shot, but she couldn't be sure. It all happened too fast. Cautiously, she raised her head and nearly cried with relief to see William Paul Clemmons lying dead in in front of her. Turning, she saw a blur of colour as Danny knelt down next to her and hugged her tight against his chest. The dam holding her emotions inside broke, and Lindsey cried into Danny's shirt front, feeling his arms holding her strong and safe.

"Lindsey," he whispered against her ear, his breath soft against her skin,

"It's okay; it's over." His voice was calm, his words reassuring.

Lindsey nodded, trying to regain control of herself. She didn't fall apart very often, but for a moment, she'd been seriously in fear for her own life. Finally, she found her voice.

"He's dead, isn't he?" She asked, and Danny nodded.

"Yeah. I didn't have a choice, Linds. He was planning on killing us both, so I took the shot."

Lindsey looked up at Danny, who was staring down at her in concern. She saw the bloody gash in his cheek where the butt of the gun had hit him, but other that that, he seemed okay. Carefully, she reached up, brushing her fingertips lightly across the skin beneath the injury. Danny moved to help her to her feet. Lindsey stood, her legs shakey and her throat working as if to cry again.

"I'll call for backup," Danny began, but stopped as Lindsey put her fingers to his lips.

Looking into his eyes, she stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek, and then buried her face in his neck.

"Not yet, Danny. Just let me hold on to you for a second." Danny made to protest, but seeing the vestiges of fear still in her eyes, hugged her to him once more.

"It's over Montana," he whispered soothingly,

"I'm okay, you're okay, and it's all over." He stroked her back, letting her get ahold of herself in the safety of his arms.

If standing in a blood-splattered room with two dead bodies at their feet, while Lindsey turned to him for comfort was what she needed, then Danny wasn't arguing.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

Danny sat in the back of the ambulance while a paramedic tended to the gash on his cheek. He winced as the man applied a disinfectant, and turned to rummage through the storage bin above Danny's head.

"Picked a hell of a day to quit smoking," Danny chucked, patting his breast pocket for the pack he usually carried with him.

The paramedic, a big, burly ex-member of the NY Jets, laughed comfortably.

"It's always an inconvenient time for that, man," he said, just as Mac approached.

Behind Mac, a few yards from the ambulance, Lindsey was giving her statement to Don Flack and a uniformed officer.

"How's the headache?" Mac asked, and Danny shook his head.

"Manageable," He replied, and squinted up at his supervisor.

"Paul Clemmons told Lindsey that everyone he tried to tell about the abuse he went through, was going to be killed. But, I'm not getting it, Mac." He said, and Mac raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, Paul was Jana Stephenson's kid, Greg was her dad, and Derringer raised Paul. But what about Jerrard, Phelps and John Atchinson?" He asked.

"Where do they fit in?" He looked again in Lindsey's direction just in time to catch her eye.

Mac saw the smile Danny gave Lindsey, and he recognised it as like the ones he and Peyton had exchanged when they couldn't speak what they were feeling.

"Atchinson was principal at the high school Clemmons graduated from. Apparently, he'd told him too. Phelps was a neighbour when Greg Stephenson first began abusing his daughter, Jana. Stephenson .Clemmons tried to tell him about it, but he wouldn't listen. He apparently told Jerrard, his co-worker, and Jerrard didn't tell anyone either. Even though he was there on at least one occasion when Clemmons told Phelps of the abuse." He moved away to allow Danny to exit the ambulance.

"But then there's Macy Derringer herself. He didn't kill her, right?" Danny asked, and Mac shrugged.

"Cause of death was ruled suicide by overdose of perscription Oxycontin. We'll probably never know if he had a hand in it or not." Danny sighed.

"So, Jana Stephenson and her brother Paul Clemmons were _both_ being abused?" He asked, just for clarification.

"Autopsy showed massive trauma to Jana's vagina and cervix indicative of violent sexual abuse. She didn't tell either, and apparently she was there on several occasions when Paul Clemmons was assaulted." Mac responded.

Danny sighed, anger rising inside of him at the injustice of it all.

"Paul and Jana didn't ask for the life they had; yet, they tried to get someone to stop it and no one they turned to stepped up to the plate for them. I can't hardly blame either of them for turning out the way they did. Here we spend time telling kids that it's okay to tell, but there are so many people that fail them anyway." Anger edged his voice now, and Mac placed a hand upon Danny's shoulder.

"But it's the ones that don't fail to do something about it, Danny, that can make all the difference. If someone had've listened years ago, this could've been avoided. But you can't take responsibility for the what ifs. You just have to try the best you can to make a difference on the next one." He squeezed Danny's shoulder and the younger man nodded.

"I know; that's why I do this job, Mac. To make a difference."


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you**.

The 9 o'clock news was buzzing with reports that the elusive Eleven Killer had finally been stopped; the media seemed to take particular glee in making sure their audience knew it was an officer-involved shooting. That rankled Danny to no end, but he took a deep breath and pushed his annoyance aside.

Lindsey sat on the couch beside him, munching a slice of spinich and musrhoom pizza as they watched the news reports. She smiled when a brief pan shot from the camera caught Danny sitting in the ambulance talking to Mac. That's when she saw it. The small smile that crossed Danny's face as he looked past Mac and to something she couldn't see.

"What were you smiling about there, Danny?" She asked, and looked at him curiously.

"Where?" He answered, taking a sip of his beer.

Because of TiVo, Lindsey could rewind and pause to show Danny the exact shot she was talking about. Danny studied a moment, and then a half-smile formed on his face.

"I saw a really good looking woman standing near the camera crew," he said, waiting for her reaction.

He didn't have to wait long. Lindsey's brow knotted in confusion, and eyes flicked from the TV to Danny.

"Who was it? Someone you know?" She asked, having no idea he was talking about her.

Danny pulled the remote from her hand, and gently took her pizza slice out of the other. Lindsey's confused expression deepened.

"If you want more pizza, there's the box," she said, pointing to the half-moon of pizza left over.

Instead, Danny shook his head, leaning into her until his face was inches away from hers. Lindsey's eyes widened, and a small, shy smile; the one Danny loved so much, curved the corners of her mouth.

"Forget the pizza," he said, placing a kiss on the end of her nose.

Lindsey's breath caught in her throat, and her pulse began to race as she realised Danny was about to kiss her again. She didn't have to wait long, and wound her arms around his neck as his mouth settled warm and firm against hers. Gently, he pushed her back against the couch and pulled away from her to look into her eyes. Lindsey gazed at him; the taste of the beer he'd swallowed a second earlier sweet and cool on her lips.

"Danny," she began, but he shushed her with his index finger pressed to her lips.

"Before you go getting all green with envy on me, that girl I was smiling at on TV..." he said, and Lindsey nodded, curious.

Danny dropped a kiss on her cheek, and another on her jaw line before answering.

"..was you." he finished, and looked into Lindsey's face.

Lindsey didn't have anything to say, and she could see the questions in Danny's eyes as he watched her. Finally, taking a deep breath, Lindsey deliberately unbuttoned the first button of Danny's shirt.

"What if I told you I want to wake up next to you in the morning?" she asked, and Danny chuckled.

"Then I guess I'll get to smile at a pretty girl the second I wake up, won't I?" He responded, and Lindsey nodded.

"That's a shame," she teased, and Danny laughed.

"No," he said, kissing her breifly,

"I think it's a good thing."


End file.
